


Don't I know you?

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Rescue, Restaurants, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: opposite, purpleVisiting old haunts, former agents find only some things have changed.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Don't I know you?

The street was deserted. A street light flickered. Little piles of garbage fluttered and whirled in the wind and it started to rain. A cat scampered across the road to shelter under a car.

A man stopped at brightly lit steps. Below was an Italian restaurant, each table with its check cloth, Chianti bottle candle, and its complement of people enjoying (or not) a night out. The name above, more than the rain, tempted him down.

The waiter saw a man of substance, possibly a tourist from his accent, but could only offer a poor choice of seating. “There’s a table for one, sir, but it’s hidden away, right by the kitchen.”

“That will do.”

The candle on the table gilded his hair as he sat down with his back to the wall and looked around. “Your first time in New York, sir?” the waiter asked handing him the menu.

“I used to work around here.”

The waiter affected interest briefly, “Is that a fact? Excuse me, sir, I’ll be right back to take your order.”

When he returned, his guest looked up sharply and, unusually for New York, the waiter apologised for keeping him waiting.

“I’ll have Steak Florentine and a green salad. Where does your beef come from?”

“We import the best, sir. Aberdeen Angus.”

The man looked interested. “From Scotland?”

“Canada... No first course? Okay… To drink?”

The dish when it came was perfection. A T-bone steak, merely shown a flame and very rare therefore, lay sliced thin on the plate with attendant garnishes. Few customers ordered a dish so expensive so he had barely started when the restaurateur himself came to the table.

“I hope everything is to the signore’s taste?”

“Excellent. My compliments to the chef.”

“Thank you, signore. I am so sorry we had no better table for you.”

“I’m quite content here.”

“We have not had the pleasure of your company before, signore?”

“No. Last time I came here this was a tailor’s shop.”

“Ah, my uncles’ shop. You remember it?”

The man stiffened. “Your _uncles_?”

“Gianni e Paolo del Floria. We kept the name.”

The man relaxed. “I knew them. Where are they now?”

“Paolo is dead. Gianni never comes in – it broke their hearts when everything closed down.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. They were good men.”

“You knew them from before?”

“Yes. They did a lot of repairs for me when I worked for… when I worked upstairs. What’s up there now?”

“Offices.” The restaurateur looked around quickly and then more closely at his guest who had continued to eat during the conversation. Not a young man despite his generally youthful appearance. He observed silver threads among the fair hair. The well-cut suit concealed a slight but muscular build and the man’s hands were scarred.

“My uncles never would say anything about the organisation upstairs, even after it moved out, but I remember the rumours …” He stopped when the man silently raised a finger to his lips. “My apologies, signore. One shouldn’t listen to rumours… Enjoy your meal, sir.” The man waved his fork benignly as the host bowed slightly and left him alone.

The lone diner was sipping an austere black coffee and contemplating the sweet liqueur (‘on the house, signore’) they had insisted he have, when the restaurant door was flung open. Heads turned. Talking ceased, the sounds of cutlery on plates fell quiet. Four large men entered and stood silent, demanding everyone’s attention by revealing weapons under their coats.

The diner sitting in obscurity beside the kitchen door blew out the candle on his table and watched as the waiter approached them apologetically saying that the restaurant was full. His suggestion that they return later was rejected and the group surrounded a table occupied by a family who had stopped eating and now looked up anxiously.

“We’ll take this table,” said one of the men.

“Certainly sir, if you gentlemen would like to wait until our guests have finished their meal.”

“Now. We’ll have it now. You people have finished haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

The father touched his wife’s hand fluttering beside him and said, “If you’ll give us five minutes, we’ll be finished.”

“We want the table now. You’re gonna leave now, huh?” That wasn’t a question either.

“Five minutes, that’s all, sir. Go on, Nancy, kids. Finish your meal, then we’ll pay and go.”

Three of the men pulled his family’s chairs back and tipped them, forcing their occupants to stand. Their leader, drawing his fist back, dragged the father from his seat but before he could hit him his wrist was taken in a painful grip and his arm twisted up behind him. An arm came round his neck and choked him. His face turned purple and he squealed as his shoulder threatened to dislocate.

“Tell your men to let those people sit down,” said a cool voice, twisting the arm higher and even more painfully, “before I cause you unnecessary damage.”

A slightly high-pitched command to that effect issued from the man’s lips.

His assailant, having risen from his dark corner and taken over the situation, remained hidden behind the man’s greater bulk. The other three were prevented from getting to him by the narrowness of the gap between the tables and now stood somewhat helplessly adrift and unable to act.

Without releasing his grip, the diner turned his head to the restaurateur who had appeared behind him. “Did you call the police?”

“Yes, signore.” As he spoke, sirens and blue flashing lights announced the arrival of New York’s finest.

<>

Though calm was restored to the restaurant, conversations remained muted and anxious. The family was prevailed upon to stay with the promise of free ice cream. The restaurateur came to thank his deliverer, who had returned to his table to finish his coffee and now asked for the check.

“No, no, signore. I could not let you pay, not after what you did.”

“I did very little. I will pay.”

A compromise was reached (in the restaurant’s favour) and his guest was ushered out to the applause of all the other diners, much to his embarrassment. The father of the family stood up to shake his hand and looking at him in the light suddenly said, “Don’t I know you?” He looked more closely. “Wow. It’s Kuryakin, surely? Small world! Remember me? George, George Dennell. This is my family. Good to see you, Illya! I see you haven’t lost your skill as an agent.”

“Keep your voice down, George,” he said.

George smiled. “Abrupt as ever. You haven’t changed. Wow.”

“Nor have you. Just keep it under your hat, George. Good bye.” He bowed to George’s wife and left.

“He was a little rude, I thought, George,” she said.

George grinned. “Yeah. He hasn’t changed a bit.”

=========================


End file.
